


The Breaking Point

by The_Emotional_Robot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Emotional_Robot/pseuds/The_Emotional_Robot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a breaking point. No one was surprised when John reached his. Just how long it took.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John has a "moment"

Everyone has one. A moment when they cannot put up with whatever life or someone has thrown at them. We call them breaking points. Some are just more patient than most. And if there is anything one can call Dr John H Watson, flatmate to Sherlock Holmes - You know body parts in the fridge? Experiments on the kitchen table? Violin at 3am Sherlock Holmes?-, it is that he is most definitely patient.

However as I said all reach their breaking points, so in the time period just after “The Pool Incident” and the interesting affair with “The Greek Interpreter” Dr Watson reaches his. It’s actually rather impressive, most break much earlier and usually it’s one of the more obvious -shall we say- quirks of the World’s Only Consulting Detective that finally push them over the edge. Such as Raj, Sherlock’s flatmate after he left university, who finally blew when his cat mysteriously disappeared at the same time as some tests were conducted in the effects of arsenic in various types of food. Now Terry he coped for five months, which before John was the record (not that DI Lestrade or the elder Holmes brother counted or anything), but when Sherlock commented about his girlfriend Cheryl’s scent smelling rather more like the postman’s aftershave than Terry’s, let’s just say he rather deserved the broken nose and the key left angrily on the side in the morning. 

But when Dr Watson broke it was not over such inconsequential things as this. Not a silly cat. Not a mundane poisoning attempt. Not a brutal yet pointless break up. No it was something much more important - something crucial to very fibre of his society. The elixir of life in this damp cold country; the lifeblood of a nation; the reason that 61 million people made it through each day. What all craved, needed and desired at least every two hours and especially at four o’clock in the afternoon. What every good true British man valued across the land. The final straw was due to his habit that had been drilled into the good doctor -if we’re perfectly honest- from conception. It was not over the fact that there was no milk for his tea. That in itself it was not an unusual thing and Dr Watson would have rallied forth because as we all know dear readers tea can be drunk without milk -not enjoyably but that’s an issue for another day. No what finally did it was when Dr Watson opened the cupboard and not only was there no milk (which as I have already mentioned could have been endured) but there was… 

No. Tea. Bags.

That was it. That was when Dr Watson blew. And may I say for the record that Dr John H Watson most definitely keeps one hell of a bull pup. In fact Mycroft is rather tempted to give copies of the recording as a warning to anyone who dares threaten national security with a little note saying: This man was in the British Army. Please rethink hostile action. MH

Now if the good doctor had been given time his iron willed control would have returned and he would have just popped around the shop. However his unfortunate flatmate chose to return home at that exact moment.

The worst bit? He was completely oblivious. Yes! I know the most observant man in the world oblivious? But he always was an oxymoron that ignorant genius and never was he more ignorant than when those complicated emotions got involved. So he rattled on about his latest case while the demons of hell themselves were currently at liberty in his kitchen spewing from deep within his flatmate. 

“Honestly so obvious. The blood splatter proved that it had to be a rabid poodle released by a left-handed circus trainer. Surely Anderson could have worked that out? Absolute idiot. Couldn’t observe his way out of a paper bag…” And other such insults were flowing freely from Mr Holmes’ mouth until he observed the death of his beaker full of -he swears important- scientific solutions. 

Hesitantly beginning to pick up on the vibes after watching everything fly everywhere at John’s arm’s movement, he asked softly: “Anything wrong John?”

“Wrong? Wrong? No why should my perfect little life be wrong? My happy running after you like a nutter, suffering ruined first dates, being threatened by mad men life? No whatever could be wrong?”

Taking the answer on face value the fantastically, obliviously, observantly, ignorant genius replied: “That’s good John! I was just wandering if you knew the treatment for rabies… It’s just I fear I may have suffered a bite from the murder weapon.”

The genius turned his head in interest when he saw his flatmate place his head in his hands and shut his eyes tightly, muttering lightly about tea. His desperate need for tea. Then the doctor had an eureka moment. 

Smiling deviously he replied: “You know the only treatment for rabies? Tea. Only PG Tips. Unfortunately we are currently out of this so you can die quietly or…”

He didn’t even have time to finish the sentence before a swirl of incredibly fashionable coat tails and a bang of a door indicated one higher functioning sociopath really didn’t have a death wish. Dr John H Watson smiled to himself and thought that it wasn’t a complete lie as the facts did indicate that tea would save Sherlock.   
1\. Without tea Dr Watson didn’t work.   
2\. As Dr Watson was the only doctor Sherlock trusted he would not see a doctor.   
3\. Therefore rabies may take hold.   
Thus in conclusion tea was the only method of treatment.

Dr Watson then realised how valuable the science of deduction truly was.


	2. The Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock rises to the challenge

Sherlock sprinted down the seventeen steps from 221B as fast as his long, lanky legs could carry him, positive that almost certain death awaited him if he failed on his mission.

On finding himself on the kerb outside the little, outwardly unimportant house that was a basis for “The World’s Only Consulting Detective Agency” (the title had been expanded in John’s honour) Sherlock looked left and swiftly right (to no avail as it was a one-way street - he really should stop deleting that). He needed transport and quickly; but none was available. Murphy’s Law1 at work once again.

He knew exactly what was needed: one of the hundreds of black hansom cabs that made up the electrical current of the machine that is the capital city of London. Unfortunately it seemed that at this precise moment a power cut had hit the metropolis.

“Damn! Never there when they are required! Oh God, oh God! Whatever am I going to do?” Is what would have run through the weak minds of the lesser population but this was a Holmes. More importantly said Sherlock Holmes. He was never one to give into such hysteria which would lower himself to the great unwashed masses even if his life was in mortal peril -his very important life may I add. I mean yes his body would be given to science aiding their knowledge of the brilliance of the encephalon (or human brain) but he acknowledged rabies was such an inelegant and unsophisticated way to go; certainly not worthy of him thank you very much. Instead he worked that brilliant encephalon of his to full throttle and came up with a simple phrase - Shanks’ pony. 

Now to all you, dear readers, who have not heard this odd and grotesque phrase, may I have the pleasure of introducing it. Shank’s pony meet my dear readers, my dear readers meet shank’s pony. This phrase is known to most areas of Sherlock’s native land as a colloquialism of the most common degree to mean legs. Sherlock himself only remembers it due to the imagery of a pony and a man named Shank which resulted in a rather embarrassing situation in secondary school when someone said he should use it and he replied “but I do not know a man named Shank, and certainly not one who owns a pony.” The humiliation and mocking he received insured the true meaning of the phrase would stay with him until his dying day; apparently this sunny yet chilly February one. 

He thus decided to use his aforementioned Shank’s pony and sprinted like a famous Ugandan runner the great distance to the local corner shop for the object of his glorious quest (and hopefully his saving grace) : Tea and milk.

When he finally reached the local emporium entitled Tesco’s at the grand distance of 200 yards (Sherlock always used imperial measures) down the road; he was shocked by the undeniable dullness of this place and this task. He began to ponder which was more humiliating as the cause of his demise: rabies or boredom. Now rabies would send him mad first but so would boredom. Rabies would cause insomnia, irritability and lack of appetite; but so would boredom. Boredom would also cause bullet holes in the wall and explosions and body parts in the kitchen which would result in irritability in John. However rabies would result in hydrophobia which would mean poor personal hygiene as he was unable to shower. That was just unacceptable. 

So once he had finally finished all these deductions and difficult decisions (20 seconds later - a whole 20 seconds - he must be ill!), he entered the shop.

When he was faced with the blaring lights and the cheap tasteless musac which encircled him, he once again questioned which was worse rabies or boredom? Once again he rattled off the conclusions he had drawn but as he did so he was faced with the unmistaken sound of humanity. Children were screaming to uninterested mothers on the need for some cheap sugar rush or some tacky shiny object, whatever caught their line of vision first. Newly together partners had their tongues so far down the others’ throats Sherlock could not help wonder how they did not choke. His pale face scrunched into a look of pure distaste and his bright grey eyes glared bayonets at the lovers entwined passing him by. Though he did smirk at the ginger haired woman at 6”1 who was unwittingly snogging the man who had caused the end of her previous relationship - curvature of the back and crinkle of the tie on the bottom left. So obvious how could that not be noticed? However he was finally broken from his reverie by the ringing of a bell and a croaking voice shouting at him to “shift out of the way you dimwit”. Turning round he saw an elderly woman who John would describe as someone who baked apple pies and knitted for grandchildren. Sherlock however saw a woman who had recently put out slug poison for the neighbour’s cat - tips of the fingers- and who had been a spinster for her entire life - tatty threadbare lime green jumper. He just couldn’t help but think of the old phrase “Don’t Judge a book by its cover” as his knitting, apple pie baking, cat loving (though chemistry enthusiast and the reason the Holmes manor had no doors) grandmother had once told him.

Moving out of the way, Sherlock scanned his brain for the life giving elixir which his good and faithful doctor had told him to acquire. Sherlock admittedly had questioned the importance of tea and milk as a treatment for rabies but he did not have a medical degree and John was not the type to lie to him. Therefore he set down the aisles in search of these mythical ingredients that he had only heard of in the legends that John told him about items that should be found in the fridge (apparently not a decapitated, decomposing duodenum from a man who had suffered a particularly painful ulcer which was caused by a bacterial infection but had been exasperated by a lifestyle of spicy Indian takeaways and coarse alcohol - who knew?).

Unfortunately (or fortunately whichever way you view it) John had always done the weekly shop so he was not as swift as he could have been. So as he searched the long clinical corridors lined on all sides by cheap marketing ploys and mere nourishment portrayed as the be all and end all that was not just required but also desired, he decided to also search for entertainment, for what else do we mere mortals do when faced with death but try to delay it and live while we do? Therefore off he searched for his life saver in the form of tea and work.

He found both next to the biscuit aisle (for what is tea without biscuits but a poor man’s snack?) one in the shape of a large shelf fully stacked with brightly coloured boxes and a 5”11 man in tattered jeans and a chequer jacket (much like John’s ) surreptitiously shoving various packets of dried noodles into his long coat. Honestly this was the issue with criminals these days no sense of style he could have at least had the decency to look in the till at the desk, Sherlock silently ranted. Shaking his head and tutting (though maybe not for the reasons the shoplifter thought) he turned his attention back to the stacked shelves.

Tea. Tea. Should be easy, I mean John and Lestrade and even - god forbid- Anderson manages to buy tea. I should be able to with my massive intellect! So choices, choices. Sherlock stared at the man-made mountain of brightly rainbow packaged boxes which had once lived and photosynthesised as trees though, as the little frog on the packets told him, not in a rainforest (he pondered why that was important- he would have to ask John when, no if he returned). So many flavours: green tea, red bush tea, camomile tea, peppermint tea, berry tea, nettle tea…. And there were so many styles: decaf, caffeinated, fair trade even a choice of pyramid or circular tea bags!

“DO PEOPLE REALLY NEED THIS MANY DIFFERENT TYPES OF TEA?!” Sherlock screamed internally. Well he thought it was internal but by the death glares coming from all the people surrounding him it may not have been. Sherlock stared for a little longer but as his panic (no not panic per se just well understanding of the emergency of the situation’s importance- yes much better) and natural impatience won out; he just grabbed the closest box. 

Sherlock hurriedly found the milk as he began to feel time slowly ebbing away and he really, really did not wish to be found dead in a supermarket. That was just humiliating. He should have stayed at the crime scene that got him into this mess really then at least the reports would say he died while investigating a crime rather than “I dunno ‘e jus sorta collapsed dowen in da mid’le ov de aisle. I thawt e’ was jus sum druggie cumin dowen or somethin. I day realise e’ was ill or nuffin” on his coroner report from some Yam Yam2 buying baked beans.

On seeing another mountain of choice (why is there so much choice? Why? Anyone would think it’s a free country! I will talk to Mycroft about this because this is just ridiculous. Although I shall wait until I’m not dying because I really don’t want to have to deal with his “concern”.) Sherlock’s already limited patience finally collapsed into a crumpled heap on the filthy, sticky tiled floor. He knew it was all John’s fault; he even had evidence:  
1\. John refused to come to the crime scene to protect Sherlock from possible murder weapons  
2\. He had been vague in his requests for the ingredients to the treatment for Rabies meaning Sherlock had to make difficult decisions he was not qualified to make  
3\. And finally if John was such a good doctor then surely he should have just been able to save him rather than sending him for aforementioned vague ingredients

Therefore Sherlock decided as punishment that John should have to deal with these difficult choices (I mean the pure amount of time he spent shopping meant he surely had to have more experience in these matters) and so grabbed five different types: whole milk, semi skimmed, skimmed, lactose free and chocolate. He wasn’t entirely certain on the last but he decided the chemicals in the milk may help - he was positive he was ill now; I mean he was always certain of everything! Well maybe not emotions or the structure of the universe or modern literature or social necessities or… No he did not have time to list all of these shortcomings. Instead he just placed all five cartons into the basket. Ingredients found.

Now he just needed to get home before time ran out for once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this but here’s just a bit of translation for those readers who don’t come from England or just have no idea what I’m on about (don’t worry I don’t half the time!) :  
> 1\. Murphy’s Law means if something can go wrong it will. Aka Sod’s Law  
> 2\. Yam Yam A person from the Wolverhampton and Black Country area (West Midlands, near Birmingham). Due to the use of “You Am” quickly, it evolves into” Ye’am” or “Yam” hence Yam Yam. Before you ask yes I do come from round this area and I do apologise for the stereotypical dialect used but if you think Adrian Chiles or Frank Skinner or Noddy “It’s Christmas” Holder you’re there. NB Yam Yams are NOT Brummies! It is not appreciated when the two are confused.
> 
> Oh and by the way this is not an advertisement for any major supermarket which may have been mentioned in the fic above. It’s just the most common in Britain and also the bags John carries in the show is actually from this shop. There got my disclaimer in.


	3. The Return of the Conquering Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home, sweet home

Having chosen his purchases he made his way to the check out where he patiently (well for Sherlock) waited. After finally getting bored waiting (it took him three seconds which is very impressive and certainly deserves an amputated limb of some description) he remembered John saying once to “Play a game and keep yourself occupied for thirty seconds can’t you? God it’s like living with a 6 foot three year old!” after he had once again attacked (or as John had said obliterated - he always was over dramatic) Mrs Hudson’s wall. Therefore he put this advice into practice in the form of a game called “guess these strangers’ life stories from their shopping basket” (maybe not the catchiest title but then he wasn’t the writer in the duo). He started with the woman in front: 4”11, slim build, mid-thirties, dark brown hair cut stylishly in layers to her shoulder, large brown eyes, Asian heritage, heart shaped face, well dressed in a pencil skirt and heels, long red nails. All in all someone John would describe as beautiful and attractive. From her shopping basket, Sherlock could tell someone else thought so too. A pregnancy test showed her fears, a pack of tampons showed her hopes but the peanut butter with pickled gherkins sealed her fate. 

Glancing to the man in the aisle to his left who on appearance was a 6”6 skinhead-punk, built like a bloody brick wall as Lestrade had once technically described a suspect, which the police report had been proud of - in his defence he had been beaten around the head by said skinhead built like a bloody brick wall. On first glance a normal person - say John- would have edged slightly to the right and maybe put their hands in their pockets by their wallets, in prejudiced concern. Sherlock instead played his new game and on seeing three boxes of cat food, a pint of milk and a Beano magazine, realised he was a single dad - no ring and dried stain on shirt under lapel which a partner would have picked up on - who was picking up the comic for his child - tomboy of a girl going by him grabbing chocolate rather than sweets at the tills. The milk and cat food were probably more for hedgehogs in the garden than a cat shown by the lack of fur on his coat when everyone knows cat hair gets everywhere and also the excess of mud on his boots. Evidentially his little girl had been inspired by Chris Packham and Michaela Strachan to look after nature and the father been forced to take up the expense. Sherlock almost felt sorry for him, but then again, it was his own decision to have the little person. 

After playing this game with four other people, and seeing that the woman behind the till was intentionally taking too long as she felt that the rest of the planet must suffer as she had a disastrous love life of 12 boyfriends (and a one night stand with a woman she’d rather forget but just couldn’t) in as many months. While Sherlock pitied (well in a very Sherlock idea of pity i.e. polite condescension -well condescension-) her because he could not even manage to comprehend how dull her life must be, forced to scan in and out food stuffs all day dealing with the human race constantly; he was also concerned that he may well fall victim to his possible infliction at any moment. He therefore decided to cross the sticky supermarket floor to the bane in the life of the whole of society, both in Great Britain and across the Westernised World - The Self Service machine.

Now Sherlock did remember that John had often returned home bemoaning the devil of a Chip and Pin Machine and how he had “had an argument with it”. He also remembered how even Mycroft had commiserated with John on this matter, claiming he wished he could get rid of the “blasted things” and he was the British Government! However Sherlock decided that as a higher functioning sociopath that could hack into MI5, CIA and News International (the latter being the more difficult), he certainly could manage a self-service machine.

Oh the fool he was. The first item that he attempted to scan in, it was apparently not recognised. Not recognised! How can it not be recognised? I found it on the shelf of THIS supermarket, how is it not recognised? The second was successful, until he came to place it in the plastic bag provided, but, by not being able to move as quickly as one of many MI5 agents available to Mycroft in his “minor position” in government; he was told angrily by the screen that an ERROR had occurred. Finally after somehow managing to scan through all the products, the chip and pin machine revealed its final malevolent attempt to distract Sherlock from his mission through its most cruel and sadistic way for a population of reserved and image conscious society as Britain. Through Public Humiliation. With a siren roaring and the lights flashing, Sherlock was forced to stand ashen faced and uncharacteristically shy as an acne-ridden, ginger-haired, pompous student swaggered over to fix the tumultuous machine. The boy, once the machine had been calmed, gave Sherlock a look so condescending that even his elder brother could not have worn it. Sherlock’s response of revealing his masturbation habits, his father’s infidelity and how using his sister’s deodorant was possibly the reason behind his acne, was in his humble opinion completely deserved. 

After paying for the contents of his shopping basket, Sherlock started the long trek home. He felt almost cheery as he thought of how he was almost home and safe and how nothing could go wrong now. However he may have thought too soon - well he often did that- for on the way back to the flat, the heavens and the bottom of the shopping bag opened, which would have resulted in a normal person erupting into sweetly salty tears. However this was Sherlock Holmes, a picture of logic, who just picked up his purchases carrying them in his arms like a parent (a caring one not a Holmes one) would carry an infant back to his safe haven away from surly, normal, dull humans; mountains of tea and milk; and the British weather. Back to home.

When he finally arrived he came to a scene of homely bliss. Mrs Hudson and John were seated at the table taking cream teas. You see dear readers, as we mentioned in a previous chapter, tea is a requirement of life in Britain and as such other British people have a subconscious sense that others are low on their daily dose. That is why British people always know when a situation requires “Oh my poor love, would you like a cuppa?”. 

Therefore when John began his almighty meltdown to compare all other meltdowns, Mrs Hudson’s tea receptors in her medulla oblongata responded subconsciously to prepare an afternoon tea to rival all afternoon teas previous. Sandwiches overflowing with luscious strawberry jam. Toasted English breakfast muffins slathered with butter. Fluffy scones filled with creamy Devonshire clotted cream. All were found on an antique tea set, an heirloom of Mrs Hudson’s great grandmother, passed along the generations for precisely this situation, but, in pride of place - as it should be in a well ordered world- was the tea pot gleaming in its almost divine role as the healer of all John’s ills. Sat just behind was a content and satisfied John, ready and prepared to take on all the world - and a certain Consulting Detective- could throw at him.

Sherlock now realised that this tea malarkey was just a way for him to go shopping for John. He could have been dying and John’s priority was tea (for a point of interest Sherlock is half French so does not understand this tea thing that the British have). So in his opinion his eruption of inarticulate screaming was quite acceptable and the next five days of playing violin all night and sleeping during the day; turning up at the surgery to pester John all day; and finally blowing up two microwaves, the fridge and the oven were all also perfectly acceptable.

**Author's Note:**

> A bull pup was an archaic way of saying a temper (in the original stories)  
> I would like to stress not everyone is a tea junkie here in Britain but Watson most definitely is (as am I).  
> Oh and the four o’clock in the afternoon thing? Look up Everything Stops for Tea by Jack Buchanan. I sincerely recommend it.


End file.
